Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Declining With Dignity - from The Huffington Post
He is almost completely blind, extremely hearing-impaired and unable to walk without assistance. He is 94 years old. Eight months ago, his wife of 70 years died. After the funeral he announced his intention to move across the country to be closer to immediate family. When asked if the move would be permanent, he replied, "I'm 94 years old. I don't make long-range plans." Four months later, my father-in-law did, indeed, move from New Jersey to California.
In the best of all possible worlds, each of us would grow old in our own home and ultimately slip gently away lying in our own bed. The best of all possible worlds, we realize, reflects not reality but a shared vision of what life might someday become. For John, my father-in-law, remaining in his own home would mean isolation interrupted by three visits a day from a well-intentioned and well-paid caregiver to serve him meals he would likely eat in solitude. He has outlived almost all of his friends. He is the last of his siblings. His children and grandchildren are scattered across the country. Remaining in his New Jersey home was not a viable option.
Our next best of all possible worlds would be, we initially reasoned, for John to live with us. A quick appraisal of our floor plan indicated several flaws in the burgeoning next best of all possible plans. Since stairs are insurmountable barriers for John, he would be confined to the first floor of our home where there is no bathroom. Even if we did extensive and impractical remodeling, John would spend his Mondays through Fridays alone while we worked long days at demanding jobs. The isolation of these days would be interrupted by one if not two visits from a well-intentioned and well-paid caregiver to serve him meals he would likely eat in solitude.
We reluctantly abandoned our vision of John growing older in if not his own home, then at least surely in our home. There appeared to be no best of all possible worlds for a man practical and courageous and trusting enough to move across the country. And so it was that we began our search for an assisted living facility near our home.
There's nothing quite like "placing" an elderly family member in a "facility" to conjure up feelings of guilt and shame and anger and, yes, failure. None of those feelings was communicated to us in any way by my father-in-law. His original intention was to move into "some sort of facility." He is blessed with the financial resources necessary for such a choice. Our negative reactions were born of the stigma attached to "placing" and "facility." We forgot that what society fears it stigmatizes. And doubtless we as a society fear the incapacitations associated with growing old.
John now lives in a senior residence two miles from our home in a conservative Los Angeles suburb. Two flamboyantly attired middle-aged men, who might under different circumstances be themselves stigmatized, manage the "facility," which is licensed and tightly regulated by state and federal agencies. In addition to their flair for personal fashion, the managers have an equal flair for decorating and for throwing good old-fashioned parties. They find occasion to celebrate just about anything from birthdays to new arrival days to Fridays to calendared holidays to "Irv plays the harmonica so let's hear him" days. My father-in-law eats his meals in the communal dining room at a table with three friends. He goes to exercise class where other friends save his special hand weights for him. He attends movie matinee Wednesday even though he can't see the screen or hear most of the dialogue.
I've spent a lot of time in this "facility" over the past several months, and I've observed several constants. The first constant is that John and his cohorts take care of each other in very subtle ways. An example of this quiet caring takes place every meal at the table he shares with three friends. One friend, like John, sits in his wheel chair at the table. Another friend uses a walker and would have great difficulty arranging himself at the table if the fourth friend did not see his approach and use his foot to -- without being noticed -- position the chair for easy table access. It is possible that few people notice this constant act of caring. Perhaps not even the man receiving the assistance notices. Nevertheless, the chair is always in the right position. I've also noticed the constant power of community and, overwhelmingly, the constant turning toward life at a time when compelling evidence might dictate a different turning.
Things seemed to be going so well for John in his new home that we were understandably devastated when he began to complain. His new friend at exercise class forgot to save him his weights. The kitchen staff served his coffee at the end of lunch instead of the beginning. The musicians hired for the party didn't play any songs he knew. Careening mentally from complaint to catastrophe, we asked John if he wanted to move to another "facility."
Stunned by our question, my father-in-law replied, "Why would I want that? I like it here!"
And then we got it. John is living his life and life lived well is full of challenges and complaints and quiet caring for others. Yes, he is declining. So am I. So are you. But in his full throttle claiming all of life's vagaries, my father-in-law has forged dignity into his decline and that might truly be the best of all possible worlds.
to see the actual post go to
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mary-walker-baron/getting-older_b_1239233.html
In the best of all possible worlds, each of us would grow old in our own home and ultimately slip gently away lying in our own bed. The best of all possible worlds, we realize, reflects not reality but a shared vision of what life might someday become. For John, my father-in-law, remaining in his own home would mean isolation interrupted by three visits a day from a well-intentioned and well-paid caregiver to serve him meals he would likely eat in solitude. He has outlived almost all of his friends. He is the last of his siblings. His children and grandchildren are scattered across the country. Remaining in his New Jersey home was not a viable option.
Our next best of all possible worlds would be, we initially reasoned, for John to live with us. A quick appraisal of our floor plan indicated several flaws in the burgeoning next best of all possible plans. Since stairs are insurmountable barriers for John, he would be confined to the first floor of our home where there is no bathroom. Even if we did extensive and impractical remodeling, John would spend his Mondays through Fridays alone while we worked long days at demanding jobs. The isolation of these days would be interrupted by one if not two visits from a well-intentioned and well-paid caregiver to serve him meals he would likely eat in solitude.
We reluctantly abandoned our vision of John growing older in if not his own home, then at least surely in our home. There appeared to be no best of all possible worlds for a man practical and courageous and trusting enough to move across the country. And so it was that we began our search for an assisted living facility near our home.
There's nothing quite like "placing" an elderly family member in a "facility" to conjure up feelings of guilt and shame and anger and, yes, failure. None of those feelings was communicated to us in any way by my father-in-law. His original intention was to move into "some sort of facility." He is blessed with the financial resources necessary for such a choice. Our negative reactions were born of the stigma attached to "placing" and "facility." We forgot that what society fears it stigmatizes. And doubtless we as a society fear the incapacitations associated with growing old.
John now lives in a senior residence two miles from our home in a conservative Los Angeles suburb. Two flamboyantly attired middle-aged men, who might under different circumstances be themselves stigmatized, manage the "facility," which is licensed and tightly regulated by state and federal agencies. In addition to their flair for personal fashion, the managers have an equal flair for decorating and for throwing good old-fashioned parties. They find occasion to celebrate just about anything from birthdays to new arrival days to Fridays to calendared holidays to "Irv plays the harmonica so let's hear him" days. My father-in-law eats his meals in the communal dining room at a table with three friends. He goes to exercise class where other friends save his special hand weights for him. He attends movie matinee Wednesday even though he can't see the screen or hear most of the dialogue.
I've spent a lot of time in this "facility" over the past several months, and I've observed several constants. The first constant is that John and his cohorts take care of each other in very subtle ways. An example of this quiet caring takes place every meal at the table he shares with three friends. One friend, like John, sits in his wheel chair at the table. Another friend uses a walker and would have great difficulty arranging himself at the table if the fourth friend did not see his approach and use his foot to -- without being noticed -- position the chair for easy table access. It is possible that few people notice this constant act of caring. Perhaps not even the man receiving the assistance notices. Nevertheless, the chair is always in the right position. I've also noticed the constant power of community and, overwhelmingly, the constant turning toward life at a time when compelling evidence might dictate a different turning.
Things seemed to be going so well for John in his new home that we were understandably devastated when he began to complain. His new friend at exercise class forgot to save him his weights. The kitchen staff served his coffee at the end of lunch instead of the beginning. The musicians hired for the party didn't play any songs he knew. Careening mentally from complaint to catastrophe, we asked John if he wanted to move to another "facility."
Stunned by our question, my father-in-law replied, "Why would I want that? I like it here!"
And then we got it. John is living his life and life lived well is full of challenges and complaints and quiet caring for others. Yes, he is declining. So am I. So are you. But in his full throttle claiming all of life's vagaries, my father-in-law has forged dignity into his decline and that might truly be the best of all possible worlds.
to see the actual post go to
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mary-walker-baron/getting-older_b_1239233.html
Sunday, January 29, 2012
A World Seen Through The Eyes of a Cold
For the past several days I've had a bad cold accompanied by a hacking cough. My world has become cough drops and tea. I see the world through rheumy eyes. I pretend I'm a Basset Hound. I shall lean on the perfect excuse for not keeping my new year's resolution of writing on this blog every day. Of course, tomorrow or the next day I will be fine again and without an excuse. Apologies. We all try harder and keep stumbling ahead.
Keep reading.
Keep reading.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
A Sweet Wrong Number
Last night a little after eleven my cell phone rang. The caller's number displayed as restricted. Since I am almost always on call for work, I answered in my typical on call fashion:
Mary: This is Mary
Caller: May I speak to Michelle?
Mary: Sorry. There's no one named Michelle here. You must have the wrong number.
Caller: Seriously? There's no one named Michelle there? Are you sure?
Mary: I'm sure. What number did you dial?
Caller: (By the way, the caller is male.) (And at this point he recited my cell phone number.)
Mary: Wow! That's my phone number all right. But there's still no one named Michelle here.
Caller: Oh, man! This is so disappointing. I was at a party last night and I met this amazing woman named Michelle. I asked her for her phone number and this is the number she gave me.
Mary: Maybe you wrote it down wrong?
Caller: I repeated it back to her. Oh, this is so rude. My name is Josh.
Mary: Hi, Josh. I'm Mary.
Caller: Hi Mary. I feel so silly. Do you think she didn't want me to call her?
Mary: Josh, anything is possible. Those things happen.
Caller: Mary, could I talk to you for awhile.
Mary: Josh, I assure you I am not the woman of your dreams.
Caller: Oh, yeah. I'm so sorry. I'll say good-bye now.
Mary: Bye, Josh. And good luck to you.
Caller: Thanks. I really appreciate that.
And then he hung up and so did I.
Michelle, seriously. Next time just tell the guy you don't want him to call you. And by the way, I think you should have given Josh your real phone number. He sounded like a great guy.
Mary: This is Mary
Caller: May I speak to Michelle?
Mary: Sorry. There's no one named Michelle here. You must have the wrong number.
Caller: Seriously? There's no one named Michelle there? Are you sure?
Mary: I'm sure. What number did you dial?
Caller: (By the way, the caller is male.) (And at this point he recited my cell phone number.)
Mary: Wow! That's my phone number all right. But there's still no one named Michelle here.
Caller: Oh, man! This is so disappointing. I was at a party last night and I met this amazing woman named Michelle. I asked her for her phone number and this is the number she gave me.
Mary: Maybe you wrote it down wrong?
Caller: I repeated it back to her. Oh, this is so rude. My name is Josh.
Mary: Hi, Josh. I'm Mary.
Caller: Hi Mary. I feel so silly. Do you think she didn't want me to call her?
Mary: Josh, anything is possible. Those things happen.
Caller: Mary, could I talk to you for awhile.
Mary: Josh, I assure you I am not the woman of your dreams.
Caller: Oh, yeah. I'm so sorry. I'll say good-bye now.
Mary: Bye, Josh. And good luck to you.
Caller: Thanks. I really appreciate that.
And then he hung up and so did I.
Michelle, seriously. Next time just tell the guy you don't want him to call you. And by the way, I think you should have given Josh your real phone number. He sounded like a great guy.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
An End Of The World Sunset
I left work a little early this evening -- about five o'clock. Driving west on the 210 freeway was a most and unusual undertaking. The entire sky was streaked red and purple. The entire sky. At first I thought, 'Wow. What an amazing sunset.' It was truly an amazing sunset. Then I got to thinking that I had never, ever, seen a sunset like that in California. Then I got to thinking some more that I had never, ever, seen a sunset like that in my entire life -- not even in Arizona famous for its sunsets. Then, of course, I got to thinking that such sunsets can only herald the end of the world. Then I got to thinking that this sunset must be what living on Mars looks like all the time. And then I remembered that something is going on with the sun (or went on with the sun early this morning) which caused Delta Airlines to cancel some of its high flying flights (or rather some of its higher flying flights because presumably most of its flights fly high). And then I thought, "Okay. We'll all probably survive this sunset."
So then I just appreciated it and then I was home.
Welcome to my world where a fantastic sunset is never just a fantastic sunset.
So then I just appreciated it and then I was home.
Welcome to my world where a fantastic sunset is never just a fantastic sunset.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
More Lessons Learned From The Basset
In the scheme of things and compared to most representatives of the dog world, Basset Hounds are different in appearance. I say that with all admiration and kindness but come on. The Basset Hound does not exhibit the characteristics we might look for if we, for example, went looking for a big, handsome brute of a dog.
Here's the thing, though.
Basset Hounds feel really good about themselves. They may have many deficits or behaviors that many might label deficits (stubborn and the aforementioned lack of any Alpha dog awareness, for example) but self esteem or positive self image is not among them.
So the lesson learned?
Why should I care what other people might think of how I look or how I behave? My Basset Hound doesn't give a shit so neither should I.
In the future, therefore, I will try to nurture my inner Basset Hound and feel really good about myself.
Here's the thing, though.
Basset Hounds feel really good about themselves. They may have many deficits or behaviors that many might label deficits (stubborn and the aforementioned lack of any Alpha dog awareness, for example) but self esteem or positive self image is not among them.
So the lesson learned?
Why should I care what other people might think of how I look or how I behave? My Basset Hound doesn't give a shit so neither should I.
In the future, therefore, I will try to nurture my inner Basset Hound and feel really good about myself.
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